


Gamehawking for Beginners

by bookstorequeer



Series: Gamehawking [1]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstorequeer/pseuds/bookstorequeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fury recalled their best sharpshooter and it was up to Agent Coulson to restore the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gamehawking for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emocezi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocezi/gifts).



> HEREIN THERE (might) BE SPOILERS.
> 
> If you haven't seen "The Avengers" yet, please don't be mad at me if this spoils you to parts. It's set pre-movie but you never know.

Phil Coulson is good at what he does. He can't tell you what he does, because then he (or someone he works with) would have to kill you, but if you've been read in, you know that he's one of the best agents in his given field.

That's why when Fury asked him to check on their loose-canon archer, Phil made a note and scheduled time before lunch to search the upper catwalks for their errant acrobat. He was well into his own lunch break before he heard the telltale scuff of a boot heel on the corrugated metal flooring S.H.I.E.L.D. had deemed a necessary expense. Phil ducked and swung around, pulling his weapon in time to come face to face with Barton's drawn bow.

"Good afternoon, Clint," Phil smiled, holstering his gun and showing his bare palms in good faith. "How are you finding everything?"

There was no verbal response from the shell-shocked sharpshooter but Barton's head cocked like the bird they called him and Phil exhaled slowly when the string on that taunt bow went slack.

"Good. We're not your enemies, Clint," he said, voice soft like it was whenever he didn't want to die but still could. The other man nodded and was gone in a blur almost too quick to follow; Phil would have lost him for sure if he hadn't been trained in following targets so keen to avoid it.

He made a mental note of the high nook that Barton disappeared into and directed all S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel away from that section. There was no sense in disturbing the Hawk when he'd chosen a roost. Phil wasn't sure what sort of assignment Fury had sent Barton on before recalling him to watch the Tesseract but he could see the way it haunted the young archer. They all knew better than to talk about it but Phil still heard the rumours.

At first he left the supplies—blankets because it was cold in the bowels of the building and pillows because no one could sleep on concrete and metal—in a seldom-used corner of the facility and grew used to the feel of eyes on him as he walked and the soft squeak of a size ten tread behind him. Almost two weeks after Fury had given him this detail, he found that he had a shadow soon after leaving his office.

"Good morning, Clint," he murmured, having become familiar with the looks he received before people realised that there was a raptor lurking just over his shoulder.

They had been alone for a few minutes before Phil slowed and sat on a long-empty ammunition crate with his back to the wall. He pulled his own lunch from his pocket like he always did and a second helping which was set carefully beyond his own reach once seated. Turning back to his own meal, Phil smiled to see an apple—an apple which he hadn't brought himself and would no doubt match the bag pilfered from the kitchen that morning—sitting innocently on top his sandwich. It had taken a few days but he was no longer startled by the gifts and barely hesitated in his narration of his weekend plans as a result.

"I'll make sure that someone leaves supplies out for you," Phil reassured his shadow, sure that he wasn't alone because the other meal was disappearing a little more each time he looked away. He smiled when another apple appeared beside him and shook his head. "One's my limit. You keep it."

He heard a soft negative grunt and nodded, pocketing the fruit as he stood. His hand fell instinctively to his holster when there was a body suddenly between him and the door.

"Clint, it's good to see you," he murmured, releasing the weapon. "How're you doing?"

That head tilted in confusion or concentration and Phil felt himself studied as he stood stock still. He held his breath as the sometimes-lost security asset stalked closer by inches and he went willingly when fingers closed around his wrist and tugged.

If you asked him later, Phil Coulson—full-time agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and more-than-part-time Captain America memorabilia collector—would have no idea how, exactly, it was that he came to be where he was. He knew not to startle Clint Barton, whose responses could be unexpectedly violent, but at the same time he was unafraid, fully willing to follow the man up past the sections of the facility that were no longer being cleaned because their Hawk had laid claim to this territory and no one else was invited. Except, he thought, for Phil.

He sat gingerly on the blanket that was curled over pillows and stolen flak jackets on the floor; he shouldn't have been surprised by how comfortable it was but made a point to tell Clint that it was very soft. The other man smiled and nodded at him, still having not said a word.

They passed the time with Phil telling Clint about his parents and the dog, Sadie, that he'd had while growing up; they ate what rations Clint had stowed to go with the apples and every time Phil even looked at his radio, Clint shrunk in on himself and turned away. The comm was set aside and, except for a quick text telling Fury that he was clocking out early and would be watching over their Hawk this weekend, Phil didn't worry about it. Instead, he played many near-silent games of poker and gin with the archer and dozed when the lights dimmed during the night. He awoke with an arm around his waist and spent Saturday gently prying at the haunted raptor until he got more than a grunt or a headshake in response.

"You're more than this, Clint," Phil sighed, surprised to find those hands to be cold when he reached for them. "You can come back, even if it's not for Fury or for the job."

He didn't get a response right away, not until midway through the next morning when he was contemplating whether it was really necessary to put back on his tie and if he could get away with not eating yet another apple, if Clint didn't notice. He stilled when the other man started speaking, letting himself be leaned on when Barton inched closer.

Phil could have told you before that weekend that he wasn't the same kind of agent as Clint Barton, if only because he had better accuracy with a firearm than with a bow and arrow. But after that weekend he could have told you that he no longer wished to be any other kind of agent than he was. Somehow, over the course of hearing about nightmares and blood and killing with your hands because you've run out of arrows and you have no other weapons, Phil found himself with his arms around the archer, murmuring things his mother said after Sadie passed away.

When he awoke Monday morning, Clint had already left the nest. Phil clambered reluctantly to his feet and into the spare suit from his office that had somehow come to be draped over the railing nearby. He answered his phone when it rang this time and nodded to the agents he passed on the way to his desk. He only lost one step when his Hawk caught stride with him, openly and if not nodding to the agents they passed then not staring through them, either.

"A productive weekend, then, I take it?" Fury asked over the phone and Phil couldn't help a smile as Barton took to roosting on his spare chair and staring out his office door at the world beyond like it could be dangerous.

"I think so, sir."

"Good."

Fury mumbled in his ear and Phil listened, agreeing in nonsense syllables and marking it down in shorthand as he watched the Hawk settle. It wouldn't last, he knew, because Barton preferred higher perches than his ground-floor office but for now he was content to have the wayward archer so close, to know that he was safe. It didn't hurt that he'd found himself developing a taste for apples.

**End.**


End file.
